


and we'll drink ourselves awake

by chambers_none



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe- Bakery, Billie Piper references because, F/M, Human!Doctor, WIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:09:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chambers_none/pseuds/chambers_none
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another universe, the Tenth Doctor meets Rose Tyler in a bakery. This is their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we'll drink ourselves awake

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of nowhere- at 5.10 am, because in Singapore the 50th special premiered in the am, I was reeling from the episode, and all my Ten x Rose feels were threatening to spill out. So here is the product.
> 
> This is dedicated to Judith and Maddie.
> 
> Title taken from Belle and Sebastian's "Piazza, New York Catcher".

John Smith, he is called. His friends laugh at his name- old schoolmates, new colleagues, acquaintances- how stereotypical, they say. How unbelievable.

 

It is true, though. His name. It _is_ John Smith. Well. He was almost called Jonathan. But his parents, the Smiths- well who knows what they were thinking? Hopefully not having a laugh at his expense. Perhaps they wanted him to be normal. To blend in.

 

John's mind wanders over all these thoughts like skipping stones over a pond or a lake- practiced, familiar motions over the same surface of a body of water: they're not exactly new. He hasn't led an interesting life, exactly, John Smith. Well, once he won a raffle in Year Eleven. He got a new bike and everything, except he was too old for it, so he gave it to his cousin. Nice bike, that was. Red and not exactly his style of size, but it was nice.

 

He's absentmindedly, almost lazily sweeping now- peering at his peripheral vision the dust motes that swirl in the morning air and golden light: it makes a golden picture. He's very boring, he is, but he finds wonder and beauty in the smallest things. He stopped mentioning this peculiar behaviour to others after a certain age, because surely, only kids do that.

 

Then a girl walks in.

 

The bell jingles, a light welcoming sound, then a really pretty girl walks in. Her hair almost blends in with the morning light that's filtering through the glass doors. John's mum would have said that with the right voice she could be a right old popstar on one of their telly channels.

 

-

 

"Erm, hello," she says, stepping carefully over the little dust pile he's swept up. "You- you are open, right?"

 

John looks at her, takes her in like she's the most fantastic sight he's ever seen: he drinks in the image like a thirsting man in the desert who's only just found an oasis. She's gorgeous, and bells that aren't on the bakery door are ringing, angels are chorusing, nerves are firing, and John- he can't say a word.

 

The girl smiles at him a bit warily, eyes squinted at him and an unsure expression on her face like she thinks he's dangerous. Wa hey- no! His mum always says that he wouldn't hurt a fly. Wouldn't know how to.

 

The girl laughs, an almost-giggle that's just rumbly and deep enough not to be too feminine, too grating- and that endears her to him even more, doesn't it, goodness, what has he gotten himself into- and he realises he's just said that last bit aloud. He's got to stop speaking aloud his thoughts, really, it's embarassing, and this isn't exactly the first time it's happened.

 

"Can we help you?" And, oh, good old Martha, she's here, she's here. Except John is a tad annoyed: he's just been working up the nerve to say something (of his own accord, even) to the girl. Damn it.

 

Martha's hands are folded over one another and her smile is strained: John feels awful, and he hurries behind the counter. Sure, Martha inherited the bakery, and it's hers, but they're old family friends, and she's been trying to go through university- med school, and oh, how proud they all had been- as it is: John's supposed to be manning the front, and all that.

 

"Um, well, I'd like a coffee, black, with five sugars and three cream, please- and, have you got any muffins, or the like?"

 

This time John finds his voice. It cracks, but he tells himself that no one notices. "We have blueberry muffins and scones, yes, but they're a day old- we're not usually open this early on Sundays."

 

The girl's smile falters, and it's ridiculous, but John's stomach swoops. "Oh-oh, sorry!"

 

Beside him, Martha shakes her head, taps on the glass display. All business. "It's fine, miss. What you'll be having, besides the coffee?"

 

"Call me Rose," she says, and her voice is lovely. John could listen to it all day. Maybe she really was one of the popstars on telly. He wouldn't know, he could never keep up with the gossip. Come to think of it, neither could Martha or Mickey or Ianto.

 

Martha nudges him, subtly, and he sets about making coffee. A damn good coffee, if he could say so himself. When he finishes the pot, waiting for it to brew, he tunes back into the conversation, dallying by the machine. Perhaps he could learn more about Rose, without having to actually divulge any of his personal information: god knows he'd pour out his entire life story, and do it badly.

 

"... yeah, we love it here. Quieter than the city- and dad's finally got the room he deserves for all his inventions."

 

"Inventions?"

 

"Oh, he likes to toy around- they never go anywhere, really, but what's the harm in getting him an entire floor to himself if we can afford it, you know?"

 

John smiles to himself. Rose sounds like... well, like perfect.

 

-

 

Even after consuming her cup and muffin (and three more of the former, too, by Jove) Rose hasn't gone away, chatting with Martha over the counter. John has run out of small tasks to occupy himself with, even if it's just so he can stay in the same room as her, be near her, when Ms. Noble walks in.

 

Oh, he knows her of course- Donna, she introduces herself to her clients or business partners or customers over the phone, voice crisp and clear and sharp like lightning, Donna Noble- but no one in the bakery dares to call her that to her face. Except Martha, but Martha's _brave_.

 

No one actually knows what Donna does, really, except Martha maybe. But then again, Martha knows loads of things. Yeah, John and Mickey have their basic common senses, but Martha- she's bright and quick, she is. That's why Mickey fancies her so much, maybe, not that Martha knows that. All the boys of the bakery know is that Donna Noble is scary, a force to be reckoned with, especially on weekdays when she comes in with her pantsuit neatly pressed and her impressive cell phone and her briefcase. On weekends, she's the same, minus the briefcase.

 

Donna's yapping away on her cell when she strides in, like she owns the place and not Martha- John wouldn't be surprised if that were true, if Donna was some higher-up or secret government official or et cetera. (Mickey and Ianto are of the opinion that he watches too many American movies.) Donna's stride is brisk today, instead of her usual almost-languid-and-predatory, which means she's angry, which means she wants her chai tea latte.

 

They've never even heard of chai tea lattes, before Donna.

 

Donna never drinks tea when she can help it, citing it as "for home, when I can rest and relax", but that, that John finds hard to believe. Donna is so tightly wound up and high strung all the time, all snappy words and action and quick-fire gestures; he can't imagine it. But he sets about making a chai tea latte anyway, because when Donna Noble is angry she needs a chai tea latte, and for everyone to get out of her way.

 

"I thought you didn't open early on Sundays?" John hears Rose ask.

 

His back is turned, but he can almost hear Martha smile. "Donna's a regular. Also, you wouldn't want to cross her."

Rose's eyes _twinkle_ , as if it's perfectly normal to be that beautiful, and she grins. "Noted," she assures, and John lets out a small huff of breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He's not that naive, he likes to think, but Donna Noble is still a force to be reckoned with all the same and while she may not actually be a government representative with powers capable of reducing Rose to dust, he's still. Well.

The chai tea latte he's preparing is prepared, now, and he rushes over to serve it to Donna. She gives him a tight smile, the colour in her eyes a little lacklustre, and he realizes she looks tired as well.

 

"Thank you," she says at the same time he asks, "Are you okay?"

 

There's a silence, for a while, a precarious moment where it feels like glass is about to shatter around him any moment now, and then Donna does the impossible.

 

She sinks deeply into the armchair.

John knows, for a fact, that Donna never, ever lets go. Mickey and Ianto once had a running bet that she'd probably take a month to talk to anyone but Martha- and even then, only calling her "Ms. Jones"- which, unsurprisingly, they both lost. Donna comes almost daily for three months before she slips- and even then, John's not sure if it's a product of his imagination, because Donna Noble doesn't _slip_ , not ever- nodding minutely, eyes almost smiling when she says- and that was the shocking part, wasn't it, Mickey looked like he was close to keeling over- "my usual please, Martha."

 

The days have passed by in a blur since then, of slowly daring to look Ms. Noble in the eye, then serving her themselves instead of being dependent on Martha, and somewhere along the line, Donna began coming daily, lips always pressed together in an almost-smile, one corner tugged up.

 

Donna falters- and isn't today full of new things- and her eyes flutter close for a split second, before she passes her hand over her face and waves away at him in an abstract gesture. She takes a deep breath, then pulls herself together, sitting up, shoulders locked- John almost feels sorry for her, this woman of steel and lightning always having to seem invincible. She smiles blandly, then seems to remember that he's still there, "Because, I- I could help, you know," and she gives him a tired sigh. 

 

"I'm fine, John. Thank you, for asking." 

John doesn't comment on the deep breath and the heavy pause before the second word.

 

There's a short rap on the display case- John turns around, and Martha's tying her hair into a bun. "I've got to, yeah," she doesn't inform him so much as remind him, then she murmurs a quick apology to Rose, before she's flying, running up the stairs as fast as she can. Rose smiles at him now, bright and curious, then comes over to where Donna is sitting. 

 

"What's that about?"

 

John jerks up, his head rearing back in a comical imitation of a frightened horse, and he flushes scarlet. "Oh, um, it's nearing ten now, so Martha has got to go. She's, uh, at university, her class starts soon." Throughout all of it, John keeps nodding his head nervously, as if to reassure that the information is correct, because he can't be telling Rose untruths now, he can't.

"Oh, oh, yeah? She's at med school, right? That's impressive!"

 

There's a big grin tugging up the corners of his mouth in spite of himself, and John decides to ignore embarrassing himself in front of this beautiful girl in favour of beaming proudly. "Yes, she is. We're all very proud of her."

 

The crinkles at the corner of her eyes seem to wink at him.

 

"What about you, then? You schooling?" Rose, who has been leaning on an armchair opposite Donna the whole time, finally sits on its right armrest. She crosses her legs, settling for a comfortable spot, before looking up at him.

 

John starts. "Uh- I, I did, but I guess- Martha's a family friend, so we help-" he glances helplessly around the bakery, his neck feeling awfully warm- "and I, um-"

 

Rose cuts him off, voice serious but understanding. Kind. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to, you know," and her face is one of understanding, John feels like he's being redeemed.

 

His gaze drops to the floor. "I know," he says so quietly, although he guesses Rose has inferred his nearly inaudible words.

 

When he looks up through his lashes, not daring to move his head, Rose is still staring at him, but her expression is thoughtful, and her head is cocked to the side. She catches him looking at her looking at him, and her eyes light up once more, a playful grin barely restrained. It feels like an inside joke. John doesn't have many of those- he can count the number of friends on one hand, but. It feels good.

 

Rose turns to face Donna now, deciding to slip off the armrest and falling into the cushy chair itself, reclining. "You come here a lot, then?"

 

Donna's face is a myriad of expressions, all lightning-quick and cutting, before she smooths it into a neutral mask again. Her voice is expressionless; on normal days, John can barely read her. Now, with absolutely no idea what's going on in that head of hers, she's frightening. 

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, miss." Her right eyebrow is raised, and John- slowly, like approaching a wild animal- dares to raise his head and straighten up.

He clears his throat, and the two women turn to look sharply at him. He feels like he's intruded upon a Mexican standoff- both of them are bristling, Rose at Donna's comment, Donna from being caught up in her problems, probably. 

 

"Uh, I should go sweep-"


End file.
